Waltzing
by IssyEmm
Summary: "This job is ruthless. Everyone loses something or someone important, but there's no time to pick up the pieces before the next game starts. You just carry on and hope no one sees you crying." Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy drabbles. Chapter Two - Connie.
1. Guillam

"_This job is ruthless. Everyone loses something or someone important, but there's no time to pick up the pieces before the next game starts. You just carry on and hope no one sees you crying."_

Loyal to his profession. Dedicated to his job. Just trying to bring in the money to pay for the rent. Or being a fucking walkover as William would so gently put it sometimes. Of course, he hadn't told William what his job was, but seeing as they shared the same apartment (and the same bed), it was evident that he spent a little too much time at work. William never made a fuss though. He accepted it. Peter loved him, and could never thank him enough for that.

Their relationship was so unconventional that it was nearly unbelievable, and if anyone at the Circus found out, he would be dismissed in all but a few seconds. Of course, George knew, but then again, he noticed and knew everything. He couldn't help but hate him for what he had implied and caused. _If there's anything you need cleared up, now is the time to do it_. He knew; he knew that William would have to go.

The first time they met had been whilst Peter was on the receiving end of Ricki Tarr's foul mouth outside some café in the Western side of London. William had been on a date set up by some of his ridiculous friends, but was absentmindedly staring out of the window as the rather attractive woman opposite him rabbited on about her ex-fiancé. Every other man, young to the pensioner sat in the corner, was admiring the leggy blonde, but William really couldn't care less about her. She was wearing completely indecent clothing: a skirt ending way above her knee and a jumper with a neckline that was too low even for a dominatrix.

William had sandy coloured hair, a result of serving in France during the war as a teenager, at just sixteen. The sun damage had permanently changed his hair from dark to blonde, and he didn't really like it. He was nearing forty, and should be married by now, but every woman he came across just didn't suit what he was looking for. He didn't really know what he was looking for. But then he realized who he was looking _at_.

The man outside, the one he had inattentively staring at out of the window, was very tall, even taller than the spindly woman currently sipping at tea, leaving irritating lipstick marks on the china. He had straight, strawberry-blonde hair and was sporting a rather tight fitted three piece suit with a startling blue large-knotted tie. He looked like he was in his early thirties, and even though he wasn't homosexual, William knew an attractive man when he saw him.

The man he was standing beside was shorter, younger and had bruises all over his face, like he had been in some sort of large punch-up with a wrestler. The younger man appeared to be shouting, but the taller one wasn't listening, looking around, bored with the complaints. He briefly caught William's eye and gave the corner of his lip turned up into a humorous smirk. He turned back to the bruised man, just as he punched him straight in the face.

Without even thinking about it, William leapt up from his seat in the café, apologized profusely to his date and ran outside to find the bruised man gone, and the other sat on the bench outside the café, sporting a bloody nose. The man looked up at him, and tilted his head slightly, as if considering William, seeing if he was suitable company. After a few seconds, William sat down anyway and offered the man a tissue and a cigarette with a lighter in tow.

It all started from there on.

They lived together for three years before the mole in the Circus appeared. And that was when George gave the instruction to get rid of William. On his way home, Peter thought of what it would be like to live in the apartment without him, and it ripped his insides apart. But he had to protect him, because, even though he hated George for having to say it, Smiley was right. Alleline must've known he was working outside the family, and would be sending all of his little posse around after him, so it was for his reputation that he had to ask William to leave. He hated himself for having to do this.

When he walked into the apartment, his briefcase barely remaining inside his quivering fist, he was greeted by William sat at their table, working. Peter stared at him, admiring him from a few metres behind as William talked about his work. When he signed his final signature, he swivelled around, and immediately knew something to be wrong.

Peter hung his head as William packed away his clothes, unable to stop the tears caressing his cleanly shaven cheeks, trawling over his impact-high cheekbones. He could see William's hands trembling as he zipped up his suitcase, and it was horrible how a younger man could make someone seven years his senior feel like a bullied schoolboy. When he was finished, William breathed out loudly, and then sniffed loudly, playing under the pretence of blowing his nose.

'If there's someone else, you can tell me,' he spoke reasonably, but the look Peter gave him wiped this from his mind. He might be hopelessly in love with this man, so much more than he could ever believe, but he was intelligent – he knew it wasn't a case of cheating. Because it sounded vain, but he knew Peter loved him too. That man, gosh, that impossible man – he was so difficult with his emotions that it had taken him a good six months to get him to admit to it. And all of the months they had spent together it was all for nothing.

'I'm a grownup,' William finished, before dropping his keys onto the table and walking out of the flat, his heart sinking to the ground. As soon as he slammed the door shut behind him, he slumped down against the front door of the apartment and brought his knees up to his chin and let out the tears he had been restraining. Inside the apartment, he could hear Peter doing the same thing. He couldn't understand how there could be a reason for this – it was obvious neither one of them wanted it. They both broke their hearts there and then. Beyond repair.

**-Guillam-**

'You know, I'm the leader of the British Intelligence Service-' George Smiley began, placing his hands on the desk in front of him and intertwining his fingers together in one large fist. He had pulled Peter inside the lavishly decorated meeting room, seeing that he had been acting rather depressed ever since Bill Haydon had been revealed as the mole, and the Circus has been handed over on a silver platter to the good guys.

Peter looked dishevelled; his hair was greasy and had reverted back to the curls he had had when he was a young child. His aquamarine eyes were constantly coated in redness, the capillaries bursting in his eyes, and the skin above his cheekbones was grey and dark, casting a shadow over his usual handsome features. His skin was becoming more translucent every day, and he looked so damn tired. He was working overtime, often sleeping at work and relying on coffee to keep him awake. He looked like he had lost the will to live.

'Congratulations, I hadn't noticed,' Peter said sarcastically, snapping violently at his mentor, but then realizing what he had just done and allowing the faintest of blushes to grace his face. Smiley seemed to notice his irritation and just moved on.

'Don't interrupt me Peter. As I was saying, I am now in control of the Circus, and I have an innumerable amount of undercover agents at my disposal,' George offered up, his tone appealing and calm, trying to cool the rage that he could tell was bubbling up inside the young ginger man.

Peter looked confused, and shrugged carelessly. 'What does this have to do with me?' he asked casually, wondering if anything had actually happened that required him maybe changing his job. He was quite alright being the head of the scalp-hunters.

'It means that I can easily find William. I know he's been missing ever since the mess with Bill Haydon was resolved.'

'No. Thank you.' Guillam spoke harshly and coolly, looking away from Smiley and observing the room, even though he had spent nearly a day a week in here since his inception in the Circus.

'I can assure you that it's no trouble Peter,' George said softly, but Peter stopped him.

'No really George. Thank you for the offer but it is all alright,' Guillam stated, trying to stay calm and collected. His emotions were beginning to get the better of him though. He didn't display happiness and joy well, but anger and annoyance and hatred were easy. The typical heartbroken man.

Smiley leant back in his chair and let a small grimace cross his lips. 'I know what it's like to lose someone Peter, I can sympathise,' George murmured quietly, referring to Ann in his suggestion. She had come back, but he still had trouble forgiving her, like he had done every other time. He meant to comfort Guillam because he was like a son to him, but this seemed to infuriate him even further.

The blood rushed to Peter's face and without a word of warning, he viciously kicked the chair out behind him and it flew across the room and smashed into the orange wall. He stood to his feet, towering over George, and for the first time in years, Smiley felt nervous. 'I don't want your sympathy!' Peter roared, his voice low and loud, reverberating and echoing in the room, alerting the people outside in the office that something had happened.

'You lost Ann, I get that, but you've got her back. It's alright for you! I don't need you to go and find William for me because I already know where he is! And he told me that if my work meant more to me than he did then he wasn't bothering to come back!' Peter yelled, and he promptly collapsed into the chair next to the one he kicked away and covered his face with his hands, horrified at his outburst.

'But surely his safety was why you had to make him leave?' George asked profoundly, his confusion shaking his words, alongside the sympathy that Peter had made certain he didn't want.

'Exactly,' Peter murmured, 'but he's still not coming back.'

A year passed, followed by another, followed by another, and before he noticed, a decade had passed. The next time Peter saw William was when he was stood next to his now ex-lover's gravestone. He was killed in the Vietnam War, at the fall of Saigon. Peter never understood why he went when Britain wasn't even involved. Maybe it was because he needed to do something, maybe it was because he wanted to make him feel guilty – maybe it was just because he wanted to die. All Peter knew was that he would never love anyone else ever again.

Three old women all walking past stared at him in incredulity as he fell down onto the knees of his suave nylon suit and wept loudly, allowing all of his grief which had possessed him since William had gone all those years ago. But now he was really gone, and he definitely wasn't coming back. Through the ten years, Guillam had spent up to weeks at a time scouring the country, trying to find him and beg him to come back because he _missed him so damn much_ but it was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

Every night after that, after his funeral, Peter dressed in the one shirt William had neglected to take with him (the one Peter had given him for his birthday one year), clambered into the bed which now felt so empty – more than he had when he had been alive but still gone – and wondered whether his job had been worth it.


	2. Connie

Connie Sachs' life had developed such as a flower in late spring. Born young and fragile, needing the utmost care and attention, support, and rather similar to everyone else. But as she matured, grew into adolescence and discovered the world after and before wars, that's when people began to take an interest. You see, she was like a sunflower – radiant, charming and pretty. Oh, she was pretty; had boys following her around the block, falling to their knees to hear her speak, and sending the most beautiful varieties of flowers to her home. She surrounded herself in beauty.

As her teenage years passed, as did the endless boys and dances and dalliances down the local pub, Connie's beauty did not diminish nor did they entice the world. But they still enticed a few. Notably, Carl Fields, local stud, normally found with two cigarettes in his right hand, his left in the pocket of his jeans, and astride his motorbike. And for all her beauty, Connie lacked common sense.

She remembers him clearly even now – at the bottom of her box where she keeps all of her memories, all of her lovely boys, there's a picture of Carl Fields. Again with the jeans and motorbike, but also sporting a bandana, crappy sunglasses from the bloke down the market and a crucifix. No, he wasn't religious, no one in those days was, but he thought it made him look cool. He was cool. And Connie, with all her worldly wisdom, thought so too.

So they went dancing, and he introduced her to the rallies, the drugs, and the whole concept of _sex, drugs and rock n roll_. And there was no one to stop her – mother had died years ago from tuberculosis, and dad had been killed during the war. By November 1938, thoroughly and irrevocably in love with both Carl and the world he introduced her to, she was pregnant. The marijuana, speeding down the motorway at 100 miles an hour, her heart pumping wildly, long brown locks trailing across her porcelain cheeks, all came to an end.

And new things came about, but there was no one to notice any of it. Inside their little shabby hole that she called _home_, there was shouting and screaming, and slaps and hits, punches and bruises, burns and cuts. The most memorable time was when she told him she was carrying a baby, _his _baby, and his face fell. She thought he was pleased, albeit a little shocked.

It was her turn to be shocked when he slammed her dainty little body against the wall and roared, "You whore! You fucking whore!" in her face, spitting the foul stench of tobacco into her eyes. He punched her in the stomach, and when she cried he told her to _shut the fuck up_ and punched her again. "I'm not having a kid now, I don't want one or fucking need one!" he had told her, kicking the shit out of her when she fell on the floor. And after that didn't work, he kept tormenting her. He called her slut and slag and bitch, went out and got drunk, locked her inside the house. He threw boiling water down her arms and broke her nose when she complained.

Two months after she told him, Carl let her out of the house, and shoved her into a hand-built car with his alcoholic best friend and told his mate, Tom Tarr to "take the bitch and make sure she ain't got that bump when she gets back". Tom did as he was told.

They went to see Dr Allen, working in a hut in the alley behind Woolworth's. All she can remember was that there was an awful lot of needles and carbolic soap involved. Well that and the searing pain. The pain was irrefutable; forget all the times Carl had yanked her around by her hair, kicked her and twisted her limbs – that was bliss compared to this. It felt like someone had set her insides on fire, or poured acid into her blood. It was searing, blistering agony.

When she got back to the apartment, Carl was gone, and Toby Tarr told her he was sorry before screeching away in his tin pot motor. She crawled up the stairs, ignoring the pitying and disgusted stares from other residents – _"an abortion, what a one" "awh no Phyllis, that boy of hers was giving her a hard time"– _and collapsed onto her flea bitten sofa and waited for the pain to go away.

It never really did, but after four days of wailing into rotten pillows and throwing up vicious acidic substances into the bathtub, Connie managed to pour a bowl of cereal down her throat, and swallow. She sat at her three legged plastic table in what you could call a kitchen, and did not cry. She couldn't bring herself to. The only thing she could think about was her mother. She had died on the living room sofa in 1929, in front of ten year old Connie who was only just old enough to understand what was going on. _Mama, mama wake up; mama please come back, mama! _

She lingered for days, living on remnants in the broken fridge, food she found in the back of the mouldy cupboards. It was only until there was no water, and the landlord turned up and evicted her, that Connie really lost all hope. Her hair dampened, became infected with lice and grease. Her skin lost all pallor, grey bags underneath her lacklustre eyes becoming more and more prominent with every missed meal. Her bones were visible under translucent, filthy skin. She walked around London, desperate, a beggar woman at 20 years old.

When the war started, she found work at a weapons factory. She cut off her hair into a tousled bob, knowing it would just get caught in the machines. She worked tirelessly, but she was just empty. She stayed for six years until they didn't need her any more, at which point she was 27, once against radiant after having been trampled by a boot, but vacant. She had saved her money and enrolled at a local college, finishing her education and learning basic technician skills. Connie even got to see the first computer, room-sized, and learnt that deduction and understanding go hand in hand in any worthwhile job.

In 1950, fully qualified, aged 32 and still clutching onto the demons of her past, Connie Sachs got a job at the Circus. Whilst being a _woman_, Control had told her, her skills were great and she would be a good addition to the very basic team that made up the British Intelligence Service – alongside George Smiley, a young lad with slicked back hair and a waistcoat, and Toby Tarr. Of course he didn't recognize her, but she kept her distance from him; the only time they spoke was at the Christmas do in 1963 when he told her that one of his old mates, Carl Fields, had been killed during the war. Friendly fire, after attempted desertion. Connie had smiled – _he had always been a cowardly bastard_.

**-Connie-**

Sipping tiredly at her stone cold coffee, Connie stared at the grainy footage on her computer monitor, desperately trying to coax the truth out of the machine. She knew there was something wrong with Polyakov, she absolutely knew it. The slimy Russian bugger was all charm and no sense, and she knew that the Circus wouldn't just work with a confederate that did screw-all to help. It wasn't worth the time.

She dropped the coffee back onto her standardized mouse mat, and turned off the main light, trying to get a better view of this tape. She rubbed her eyes and tousled her short hair, not bothering to check her appearance. Whilst this job had saved her life, and maybe allowed her to change into a new person, it had taken all of beauty. Life had taken her beauty, but the long hours, the desperate secrecy, the sheer pressure of trying to protect a whole country, had changed her once dimpled, fresh cheeks into sagging wrinkles and gave her a grey tinge. Oh time had done its work as well, but this job was all consuming. Not just for her, but for everyone.

George, how she pitied him (Anne had left again, and he had retired from the Circus), little Peter (did he really think no one else knew about William?) and Control. Oh Control – he was up the ladder and battier than Mad Cow's disease. But she thought about Control fondly – he was a good man, had given her the job here in the first place, always made sure she was alright; had introduced her to Steven, her late husband. And now he was gone, and that creepy little man Alleline had taken his place.

And there it was! Her hand trembled slightly as she concentrated on the film, rewound it, and watched again – Polyakov, being saluted. Nobody salutes a _confederate_, not in Russia and not anywhere. She grabbed the telephone next to her desk, anticipation running through her veins and dialled the number for Percy Alleline's assistant.

"Hello, Mr Alleline's office?" came a nasally, warped voice. Connie rolled her eyes, picturing the blonde leggy woman sat behind her desk, desperately seeking the short Scotsman's approval.

"Hello, this is Connie Sachs, IT department," Connie said quickly, excited about her find, knowing with that lovely conviction that she had been right all along, "can you please tell Mr Alleline that he needs to come and see some footage we've obtained of Mr Polyakov."

"Sure, I'll let him know right away." And there was the clipped tone and the plastic red nails, but sure enough, within ten minutes, Alleline and his little (well, big) accomplice Roy bland showed up in her dark office.

"Alright Miss Sachs," Alleline began, resting against her desk, the intimidation apparent, "what have you got to show me concerning Polyakov?"

Connie beamed triumphantly, weathered teeth showing though a thin-lipped smile. She directed Alleline to look at her computer, and Bland lit a cigarette. She had to bite her cheeks to resist telling him not to – she had become accustomed to the stench of tobacco, but that didn't mean she _liked_ it anymore. She hit her space bar, and the film played, for only three seconds. But that was three seconds too long. Polyakov had blown his cover.

She watched Alleline's expression, and felt a surge of panic well up in her. He didn't look shocked, or horrified, or pleased even. He just looked normal. _Alleline was the mole. Bland was helping. Polyakov was a spy. They were trying to bring down the British Empire. Oh God, they're going to kill me_. Her thoughts whirred dangerously close to her lips, and before Alleline could try and deny it, she burst out, "Look, that's Polyakov being saluted. No one salutes the feds; he's a spy, a Russian spy!"

Alleline visibly pursed his lips and the dismissed Roy. He leaned in towards Connie Fischer, so close she could see the whites in his eyes, and the faint trace of perspiration across his forehead. "You're to leave Polyakov alone."

Despite knowing that she could be killed – why not, it had happened before – Connie couldn't contain herself. "But look, Polyakov's obviously…"

"Enough," Alleline barked, and it shut her up instantly, "You're becoming obsessed with him."

"But…"

"Maybe it's time you took a break Connie, a _permanent_ one." Alleline swiftly left.

And at five thirty that evening, so did Connie Sachs. She handed in her ID and entry forms, took her bag and coat from the cupboard, and left the Circus. Waddling onto the bus, with blistered feet and shivering hands, Connie felt as lost and empty as she had 36 years ago, having been kicked of Ricki Tarr's father's car and onto the streets.

She sat in a battered, worn seat and emptied her change into her pockets. She gazed mournfully out of the window and headed home, to an ill-advised bottle of whiskey, and perhaps a cigar or two.

After all, this job had saved her, but it had killed her all over again as well.


End file.
